Chapter 16
“T
hey’re all pretty much as you’d remember them,” Tom says, flicking the turn signal of Max’s Lexus before heading onto the road that leads into Blythewell.
“Max still thinks he’s in charge of everyone, Connor still looks like he needs a razor and a comb, Elliot still takes pride in out-mathing everyone, and Walker is still solid and reliable and making fucking excellent beer. They just all have a lot more money now.”
“Yeah, it seemed that way when they were all here for Christmas—apart from Max and Polly, with them being off on their honeymoon. But I didn’t speak with them much. I tried to stay out of the way and helped with just the clearing up.” Mainly because I was afraid they’d bring up Tom and I wouldn’t know what to say. “I think it’s amazing what you all did for Maggie and Jim. Buying that beautiful house, I mean.”
“It certainly wasn’t beautiful when we got it. It’d been abandoned for years. There was even a little tree growing through the cracks in the living room floor.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the old photos hanging on the wall up the staircase. But you’d never know now.”
“Max and Connor took care of the renovations. Connor’s great at all that design stuff.”
I shift in the seat and pull my jacket closer around me. Because I live in T-shirts and sweats a lot of the time, this V-neck feels uncomfortably low now that I’m sitting down. As I stood in front of the mirror, it looked cute with these jeans. I didn’t have time to rethink it because I’d foolishly told Maggie that Dylan would head to the main house around fifteen minutes before Tom showed up. Totally should have said thirty because I ended up in a sweaty scramble to change out of my leggings and hoodie and throw on some makeup.
It hadn’t occurred to me when I made the plan for Dylan to spend the evening with Maggie and Jim that I wouldn’t be able to get changed until he left or else he’d want to know why I was getting dressed up for a “work meeting.”
I barely think about what I wear these days, but like a teenager going on their first date, for the last forty-eight hours I’ve thought of little else—apart from the kissing. And the grabbing. And the hot breath. And the woodsy aroma of Tom’s skin that matches the scent of his hair. And the fact that I’ve agreed to Rachel’s whole Bridge Person idea.
I’ve never had a reckless relationship like this in my life, one where I’m in it just for the short-term fun and lust and sex.
Holy shit, I’m going to have sex with Tom. Will it be tonight?
I blew the cobwebs off my only set of lacy underwear just in case.
And how the hell I didn’t rip off his jeans with my teeth, like a starving lioness on a denim-only diet, the second I opened the door to him, I have no idea.
The sight of him there, lit up by the porch lamp, in the dark gray wool coat that makes me want to hang onto his broad shoulders till the end of time…Jeeesus.
When he pushed his hair back with those sexy ringed fingers and looked at me with that look—the one that makes his eyes sparkle and his lips curl up at one corner—my lady bits held a fireworks party, one made up primarily of the rockets that explode so high in the sky they make you feel dizzy.
That look made me want to jump at him, throw my arms around his neck, wrap my legs around his waist, and ask him to take me for the ride of my life.
But instead, I stood motionless and said, “Hi.”
Then he stepped toward me and planted a soft kiss on my lips, a kiss that turned into a tongue tease that tossed gasoline on the fireworks in my pants. Then he pulled away and held out his hand for me to take it.
If anyone had ever told me that such a simple gesture could make my heart sing, my brain whirl, and my legs want to throw themselves up in the air so much, I would have told them they were bonkers.
And now here I am, damp lacy underwear and all, with Tom driving me to our first date in seventeen years.
What a turn life can take.
At the intersection with The Frisky Ferret pub, Tom turns left onto Main Street.
“When will you tell me where we’re going?” I ask.
“We are going…” he says slowly as we enter the center of the village, “…right…here.”
He parks along the curb.
What the hell is here, in the middle of the village? When everything’s already closed on a Tuesday evening? I look over my shoulder. “Are we walking back to the pub or something?”
“Nope. We’re going there.” He points across the street to the new chocolate shop, which I now see has a sign in the window that reads, Chocolate-Making Workshop Evening.
“We’re going to make chocolate?”
“Yup.”
“Do you even like chocolate that much?”
“I like it enough. And I know you love it more than you love Dylan.”
“To be fair to Dylan”—I mime weighing scales with my hands—“probably about the same.”
“Saw the sign as I was leaving for the city and thought it would be perfect.” He looks very proud of himself.
I tap one of those sexy shoulders with one finger. “Well, look at you with your original ideas and organizational ability.”
“They are among my most appealing attributes.”
I’m tempted to quip back with something about his less appealing skills of skipping the country and losing touch, but if I’m doing this Bridge Person thing, I need to keep a lid on that stuff and enjoy this for what it is.
“Come on then, Dashwood. Show me what you got.”
As I reach for the door handle to hop out and discover what sweet adventure we have in store, one of his hands lands on my thigh while the other pulls my face back around to look into eyes that are a richer, smoother brown than any chocolate I’m likely to see this evening.
“This is part of my plan too,’’ he says. And his mouth is on mine, more eager than at my door, harder, needier.
His fingers press into my thigh as he tips my face to give me all the clues I could ever need as to what his tongue could do to other parts of my body.
My clit throbs in anticipation of receiving the same treatment. My nipples tighten, hoping they’ll get to go first. Every inch of my skin yearns for a turn under his mouth.
He pulls away and looks at me, our chests rising and falling faster than before.
“I like this part of the plan very much.” My voice is lower and more gravelly than I’ve ever heard it.
“Yeah, well, I obviously didn’t think it through properly because now we need to wait here a minute. I can hardly walk into the shop like this.” He gestures in the general direction of his crotch.
I shrug. “Maybe they’ll just think you like chocolate very much.”
“Shit.” He sits back in his seat. “But also we need to get out of this car before I can’t stop myself from doing that again.”
“And before I can’t stop you from doing it.”
The magnetic pull between us, the desperation to tear through clothes and have each other right here and now outside the village chocolate shop, sets the air between us so abuzz I could almost touch it.
Tom picks up my hand and kisses the back of it. From frantic passion to tenderness in the blink of an eye. My heart melts as much as it pounds.
“Okay, Hepburn, you delicious, sparky-brained, sexy-as-fuck chocolate-lover. Let’s go.”
As we step through the shop door, we’re wrapped in a warm, sweet aroma and greeted by a young woman with her dark hair tied up in a bun. She’s wearing a pink apron dotted with sunflowers and bearing the store name, Choc Full of Love, across the chest.
She lifts two glasses of sparkling wine from a tray and hands them to us. “Welcome, first arrivals! I’m Delia.”
The shop opened only a week ago, and I haven’t had the chance to check it out yet. But it is adorable with a capital A and DORABLE.
It’s long and narrow, with a glass counter at the far end displaying rows of neatly stacked and labeled chocolates. Behind it and along both side walls are rows of cabinets with shelves above, laden with wrapped and boxed chocolates, as well as some bars and chocolate-related goodies. The lower cabinets are pink. The shelves above, yellow.
The rest of the space is taken up by tables set out classroom-style for the workshop, each one topped with an identical layout of equipment and ingredients.
“God, it smells so good in here,” I tell Delia and take a sip of wine.
“That’s what everyone says.” She beams. “It makes me so happy.”
“How many others are coming?” Tom asks, his eyes scanning the tables.
“Six more,” Delia says. “I actually thought you’d all arrive together.”
Tom looks quizzical and his mouth opens, presumably to ask why a bunch of strangers would all show up at the same time, but before he can, the door bursts open and six women pour in.
They’re giggling and wearing matching hot pink T-shirts with writing on them. One woman sports a veil, the rest of them have penis head-boppers in a variety of colors. A waft of alcohol follows them into the shop.
“Oh, fuck,” Tom mutters and downs half his glass of fizzy wine.
I scan their shirts. The one worn by the woman with the veil obviously reads Bride.
Another is Maid of Honor, and then there’s Bridesmaid #1 and Bridesmaid #2.
The two older women are apparently Mother of the Bride and Mother of the Groom.
Smiling, Delia hands a glass of wine to the bride, and the others help themselves before she can get to them.
“How come you two don’t have shirts?” Delia looks from Tom to me. “What are you?”
“Um, not at all connected with the wedding,” I tell her.
“Oh.” Delia’s eyes pop as wide as the chocolate wagon wheels on the shelf behind her. “This was supposed to be…” She casts a glance over the women, who’re fanning out around the shop oohing and ahing over the goodies on the shelves, then at Tom, who looks like he’s about to discover previously untapped sprinting skills.
“No one mentioned a bachelorette party when I booked,” he says.
“Oops.” Delia slaps her hands on her cheeks. “I thought you must be the two people missing from the party who’d decided you could come after all.”
Tom downs the remaining contents of his glass, rests his hand on the small of my back, and gazes down at me with a look that says we need to get the fuck out of here. “Like you said, we can just go to the pub instead.”
For a man used to owning the space around him, he is obviously incredibly uncomfortable. Endearingly uncomfortable. Verging on hilariously uncomfortable.
I step away from his touch and point at him. “Oh, no. You, Mr. Organizational Skills, Mr. I Can Organize My Own Personal Life, are going to stay and enjoy the party.”
“Perfect.” Delia claps her hands once. “You can join in the fun.”
Behind us erupts a squeal that’s high enough to split an eardrum, shatter the glass chocolate cabinet, and set off an early warning system for a global disaster.
I turn to discover Bridesmaid #1 holding up a small chocolate mouse.
“Look,” she squeaks. “It even has a tiny little hat.”
It does, indeed, have a little chocolate hat.
“Or…” Tom takes my hand and steps toward the door. “We could just go.”
He continues moving until my arm is at full stretch, my feet stuck to the same spot.
It might not exactly be payback for breaking my heart, and maybe there’s not even a need for that now, but I sure am going to love watching him endure this.
“Nope,” I say, with a smile sweeter than the entire contents of this store. “You were thoughtful enough to book me a chocolate-making lesson. And a chocolate-making lesson is what I want. Like Delia says, it’ll be fun.”
“Oh, it will be.” She rubs her hands together and heads to the teacher’s table at the front of the class.
“Seriously?” Tom asks. Or rather pleads. Actually, it might be more on the verge of a beg. Or an implore.
“Yup. And this is why you need an assistant. You should have checked what you were booking, shouldn’t you?”
I drag him toward the two tables at the back.
Each work surface has a white cutting board in the middle, bearing a large mold. Surrounding them are glass and plastic bowls, spoons, a spatula, and a piping bag.
Tom takes his place behind his table and looks down at the mold. His eyelids drift closed for a second, and his chest heaves with a long, deep intake of air.
He sighs it out with a “fuck” under his breath.
I fight the guffaw rising in my chest as he slowly, oh so slowly, turns to look at me, sucking on his teeth and fixing me with eyes full of a potent mix of sex and despair. “We’re making chocolate dicks, aren’t we?”